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THE NEW ARCADIA 



AND OTHER POEMS 



BY .V> 



.MARY R, ROBINSON .^xc-ci^^ 



T/. A. X.X...VX ..^ 



AUTHOR OF •' EMILY BRONTE 



Their lives, a general mist of error " 

Webster 



BOSTON 
ROBERTS BROTHERS 






mniijcrsits ^uss : 
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 



FEB 17 1941, . ^ 



6^^16 3 



^; 



TO 



VERNON LEE. 



PROLOGUE 



THE NEW ARCADIA. 



PROLOGUE. 

Not only m great cities dwells great crime; 

Not where they clash ashore^ and break and inoan, 

Are waters deadliest ; and not in rhyme ^ 

Nor ever in words ^ the deepest heart is shown. 

Butj lost in silence^ fearful things are known 

To lonely souls, dumb passions, shoreless seas, 

And he who fights with Death may shrink from these. 

Alas I not all the gree7iness of the leaves, 

N'ot all their delicate trc7nble in the air, 

Can pluck 07ie stab from a fierce heart that grieves. 

The harvest-mooji slants on as sordid care 

As wears its heart out under attic eaves, 

And though all round those folded 7noun tains sleep. 

Think you that sin and heart-break are less deep ? 



8 Prologue, 



You see the shepherd and his flocks afleld. 
Hunger and passion are present there, no less. 
Fearful! when suddenly starts forth revealed 
Man's soul, unneighbored in its hideousness, 
Man's darker soul, a memory to possess 
Henceforth, by which all nature pales and dies, 
As a city suddenly wan under sunset skies. 

And I have heard long since, and I have seen, 
Wrong that has sunk like iron into my soul, 
That has eaten into my heart, has burned 7ne and been 
A pang and pity past my own control, 
And I have wept to think what such tJwigs mean. 
And I have said I will not weep alone, 
Others shall sorrow and know as I have known. 

Others shall learn and shudder, and sorrow, and know 
What shame is in the world they will iwt see. 
They cover it up with leaves, they make a show 
Of Maypole garlands over, but there shall be 



Prologue. 



A 7vind to scatter their gauds, and a wind to blow 
And purify the hidden dreaded thing 
Festering underneath ; and so I sing. 

If God had given a sword into my ha7id 

I would go forth and fight the battles of God ; 

If God had given 7ne wisdojn, I would stand 

And summon up truth with i7iy divining 7'od : 

But I have 07ily a song at 77iy C077i77iand, 

The froth of the 7Vorld a song, as water 7veak : 

Yet si7ice it is 77iy weapon, let 77ie speak. 

A7id listen you that a7'e 77107-e 77iighty than /, 
Who can go forth a7id do what I but drea7n — 
Bear with 77ie if I am vain, bear patie7itly. 
I have lived so lo7ig with shadows, luho 07ily sce7n, 
That 710W these real men 77turdered 77iake me cry, 
As there were 7io7ie on earth but I a7id they, 
And all else echoes, phantoms, witches' play. 



lo Prologue. 



But this is real, that men are wild, and hard, 
And villanous ; while other men look on 
And say, it is ?iot so : a smell of nard 
And not of blood is here ; not woebeg07ie 
These faces, but conte?it. Ah, what reward 
For all our strife had tae their quiet hoi7ies 
And quiet hearts and wish that never roams / 

So say ye ; for to think in all the 70 or Id 
There is so still and sweet a resting-place, 
Where never the angry seas of passion are hurled 
Against necessity, ijuhere none is base 
And none is starved. There is a sort of grace 
To keep so sweet a vision in your eyes, 
And as you smile the true thing starves and dies. 

Oh, help ! help I it is Murder that I cry, 
Ajid not a song to sell. Now if you smile 
And hear me you are mad ; you are mad, or I. 
For I do ?wt sing to enchant you or beguile ; 



Prologue, 1 1 



I sing to make you think enchantment vile^ 
I sing to wring your hearts a?td make you know 
What shame there is ift the world, what wrongs, what 
woe; 

Because your deaf ears, only, are to blame. 

Not your deaf hearts. Look now, and if you see 

Men as they are, contented in their shame, 

I knoio that you will help, you will let them be 

Foreseeiftg, noble, wise, and even as ye ; — 

Only your eyes I ask, only your ears. 

The rest I leave to hijn who sees and hears. 

Then let me sing, and listen to 7ny song, 

Though it is rough with sobs, and harsh and wild, 

And often wanders, and is often long, 

As mothers tell the death-bed of their child. 

My child was gentle visions, and all were wrong. 

And false, and cruel ; and I bury it here : 

Lend me your spades, — L do not ask a tear. 



1 2 Prologue, 



Lend me your souls ^ and do 7iot stand aloof. 
Saying what happy lives these peasants ivin, 
Praising the plushy licJiens on the roof. 
Leave off your praising, brothers, and come in. 
See, round the hearth, squat Ignorance, Fever, Sin. 
See ofi the stra^v the starving baby cries ; 
The mother thanks her God another dies. 

Ah, look witkifi ! Without, the world is fair, 
And you are all in love with solitude ; 
Yet look wit J tin : Evil and Pain are there. 
Look, ye who say Life best is understood 
Where greenish light falls dappling the moss-floored wood, 
Look at the dumb brute souls who suffer and strive ; — 
Leave the dead world, and make their sotils alive ! 



THE NEW ARCADIA. 



I. 

THE HAND-BELL RINGERS. 



THE HAND-BELL RINGERS. 



Last night the ringers came over the moor 

To ring us in Christmas-tide ; 
They entered in at our garden door : 
We sat and watched the yule logs roar, 
They stood on the grass outside. 

We sat within in the warmth and light, 

The fire leapt red and blue ; 
Each frosted lamp was a moon of white 
The growing plants half hid from sight, 

Letting the radiance through. 

And the white and the red lights filled the room, 
And flickered on bracket and ledge, 



1 6 The New Arcadia, 

On the pale sweet pinks and the cactus bloom, 
With its crimson flush, and the leafy gloom 
Of the sill's geranium-hedge. 

We sat, making merry, shut in from the rain 
And the Christmas cold outside. 

But hark ! the carol goes pealing again ; 

The ringers are out in the cold, 't is plain, 
Ringing in Christmas-tide. 



II. 
I left the fire with its flicker and roar, 

And drew the curtains back. 
On the edge of the grass stood the ringers four, 
With the dim white raihng behind, and the moor 

A waste of endless black. 

With, somewhere burning, aloof, afar, 
A single lonely light ; 



The Hand-Bell Ringers. 1 7 

But never a glimmer of moon or star 
To show where the unseen heavens are 

Through the whole dark width of the night. 

In front of the rail, in a shadowy row, 

Stood the ringers, dim and brown ; 

Their faces burned with a faded glow, 

And spots of light now high, now low, 

With the bells leapt up and down. 

At first, a faint red blur in the night 

Is a face — no more than that ; 
And merely a shifting disk of light 
Each great bright bell, to the dazzled sight 

Worth scarce the looking at. 

Till slowly the figure, barely guessed, 

Grows human ; the face grows clear : 

The tall, red prophet who leads the rest, 

The sallow lad with the hollow chest. 
You see them all appear. 



1 8 The New Arcadia. 

You catch the way they look and stand, 
The Hstening clench of the eyes ; 

The great round hand-bells, golden and grand, 

Grasped a couple in either hand, 

And the arms that fall and rise. 



III. 

So much I behold, and would never complain, 

As much and no more could I see. 
As clear as air is the window pane 
'Twixt me in the light and them in the rain, 
Yet strange they look to me ! 

Grim, solemn figures, all in a row. 

Intent on the carol they ring ; 
But I see no less in the pane the glow 
Of the cactus-crimson, and to and fro 
The flames their flicker fling. 



The Hand-Bell Ringers, 19 

My ribbon breast-knot dances across 

The leader's solemn brow, 
The moon-globed lamps burn low in the moss, 
And my own pale face, as it seems, they toss, 

With the ringing hand-bells now. 

So dark is the night, so dark, alas ! 

I look on the world, no doubt ; 
Yet I see no less in the window-glass, 
The room within, than the trees and grass, 

And men I would study without. 



II. 



MAN AND WIFE. 



Man and Wife. 23 



MAN AND WIFE. 

The bracken withers day by day, 

The furze is out of bloom. 
Over the common the heather is gi'ay, 

And there 's no gold left on the broom ; 
And the least wind flutters a golden fleck 
From the three tall aspens that grow in the beck. 

Yet, oh, I shall miss it to-morrow night, 

The wild, rough sea of furze ; 
And the cows coming down, looking large and white, 

And the tink of each bell as it stirs. 
The aspens brushing the tender sky, 
And the whirr of the geese as they homeward fly. 



24 The New Arcadia, 

'T is the first grief ever I owned to mind 

Until to-night, good neighbor ; 
For I could work when John went blind, 

And I never dreaded labor ; 
And Willie grew so good a son, 
We never fi-etted, I and John. 

Ah, me ! We 've waited here at the gate 

Many and many an even, 
When Willie lingered a little late, 

And I 've thought it seemed like Heaven, 
To stand, the work all done, and look 
At the yellow and pink of the sky in the brook. 

And John, I know, though he 's blind as a stone, 

And bent with a life of pain. 
He '11 miss it sore when he sits alone, 

And wish he could see it again — 
As though it were Heaven itself. Ah, me ! 
There 's only clouds that the blind can see. 



Alan and Wife. 



No doubt there was trouble enough in the past, 

But trouble we bore together ; 
And trouble shared is no worse to last 

Than the bite of wind or weather : 
But now we 're old to begin anew — 
To suffer apart — oh, it 's hard to do ! 

It's not the shame that I dread, you see. 
Though it 's sharp ; nor the workhouse fare ; 

Oh, any place is the same to me. 
Could we stay together there : 

But John 's stone-blind — my John, my man — 

I 'd like to serve him while I can. 

But he '11 be apart in one long room, 

And I as strange in another ; 
At the end of the day I '11 sit down in the gloom. 

And be no man's wife or mother ; 
And I '11 miss his voice and the tap of his stick 
Till my throat grows choked and my sight grows thick. 



26 The New Arcadia, 

I '11 not be dull ? There are people enough 
In the House ? Is that what you say ? 

Yes, every one there that I do not love, 
And only my man away : 

Voices and steps coming in and out, 

But never the one that I care about. 

I 'd rather starve in the snow with John ! 

But that would be wicked, I know ; 
Indeed, we might live with our only son. 

And never stir out in the snow. 
But burden his back with our useless hves. 
And palsy the arm that struggles and strives. 

Nay, Will has another to think of — my Will, 

'T is time the lad was wed ; 
He 's waited long, and he would wait still, 

Till John and I were dead : 
But better the Poorhouse, better far, 
Than only to live as a fret and a bar. 



Man and Wife, 27 

Ah, we remember, I and John, 

The waiting till youth is spoiled ; 
I 'd never owe my bread to a son, 

And sit while he toiled and moiled. 
And see the lass he hoped to wive 
Grow old unmarried, since I was alive. 

That was the way in our time, though, 

But I never liked the way ! 
It kept us single till forty, I know, 

And married us old and gray ; 
And set me only one child on my knee ; 
Who shall not suffer as much from me. 

And so to-morrow we leave the place 

To go to the House up yon ; 
Yes, as you say, 't is a sad disgrace ; 

Yet we Ve worked hard — I and John — 
We 've worked until we can work no more, 
And all our labor has left us poor. 



28 The New Arcadia. 

Oh, never I thought it would come to this 
When we loved each other first ; 

And yet, had I seen with the first, first kiss, 
I know I 'd have faced the worst : 

I 'd live the same life over again — 

Hardship and all — so I '11 not complain. 

Neighbor, I 'm not unthankful ; indeed, 
I know they are good to the poor 

Who take us away from our cold and need, 
When we 're grown too old to endure : 

Only I think they can have no heart, 

For all their kindness, to house us apart. 



III. 
THE SCAPE-GOAT. 



The Scape-Goat. 31 



THE SCAPE-GOAT. 

She lived in the hovel alone, the beautiful child. 

Alas, that it should have been so ! 
But her father died of the drink, and the sons went wild ; 

And where was the girl to go ? 

Her brothers left her alone in the lonely hut. 

Ah, it was dreary at night 
When the wind whisded right through the door that 
never would shut. 

And sent her sobbing with fright. 

She never had slept alone ; for the stifling room 

Held her, brothers, father — all. 
Ah, better their violence, better their threats, than the gloom 

That now hung close as a pall ! 



32 The New Arcadia. 

When the hard day's washing was done, it was sweeter 
to stand 

Hearkening praises and vows. ' 
To feel her cold fingers kept warm in a sheltering hand, 

Than crouch in the desolate house. 

Ah, me ! she was only a child ; and yet so aware 

Of the shame which follows on sin. 
A poor, lost, terrified child ! she stept in the snare, 

Knowing the toils she was in. 

Yet, now, when 1 watch her pass with a heavy reel, 

Shouting her villanous song, 
Is it only pity or shame, do you think, that I feel 

For the infinite sorrow and wrong? 

With a sick, strange wonder I ask, Who shall answer 
the sin. 

Thou, lover, brothers of thine ? 
Or he who left standing thy hovel to perish in ? 

Or I, who gave no sign? 



IV. 



JANET FISHER. 



Janet Fisher. 35 



JANET FISHER. 

PART I. 

Where Janet Fisher lived and died, 
The Eastland marshes reach away 

For miles on miles of either side 

A river desolately wide 

That is itself as drear as they. 

With tufts of purple marish flowers 

The rough gray grass is islanded j 
The travelling thtinder broods for hours 
In gather^ purple, where there lowers 
J^^ frequent tempest overhead. 

Immense the eternal arch of sky ; 
Immense — utterly barren, too — 



36 The New Arcadia. 

The plain in which no mountains lie 
To mar that vastness, bounded by 
The far horizon's shadowy blue. 

Only the river's gradual bend 

Shows stunted willows set in rows, 
Rank pasture, kine the children tend, 
Blown curls of smoke that swerve and ascend 
FTom leaning hovels clustered close. -^ 

For on this barren, aguish swamp. 

Even here is life, even here are men 
To shake with palsy, stiffen with cramp, 
To die er^ffcy of the damp 
fetid vapors of the fen. 



Though how a village came to grow 

In such a vile and deathly air 
None knows ; it may be long ago 
The outcasts of some crime or woe, 
Fleeing for refuge, sheltered there ; 



Janet Fisher, 37 



Aryi through the habit of their race, 

Or feaPiQ^yet the ^\Tatk of men, 
Their children^fettjed in the place, 
And reaped scant harv^^ in the face 
Of death, upon the poisonoils fen. 

And since the end was always near, 

And fife-spjiard ; and since they knew. 
Save sloth anii'lust;-^»cg'oys ; each year 
They served their senses less in fear, 
And more like beasts and viler grew. 

Few friends were there, tho' all were kin : 
There wasinuch strife, and many raids ; 
The hovels that thej^' huddled in 
Housed men whose brutal love was sin, 
Nameless children, and shameless maids. 

Even among this soulless herd 
Lived Janet Fisher ; but she went 



38 The New Arcadia, 

Along their streets, and no man stirred 
Her quiet heart with look or word 
To harm the village Innocent. 

They meant she was an idiot bom, 

This one fair sight in foulest place ; 
This girl as fresh as early morn \ 
So fair — and yet too sad to scorn ; 
Too sunk for any hind to embrace. 

Their one fair thing, their one thing good, 

And she bereft of sense or will. 
So mere a mask of womanhood — 
Sad ; — but there was no heart to brood 
Upon the irremediable ill. 

Yet crazy Janet found them kind — 

They took her when her mother died 
To live in turn with each ; to wind 
Their well-ropes, bind their sheaves, and mind 
Their cattle grazing far and wide. 



Janet Fisher, 39 



But often by the river-brim 

She strayed, scattering seeds and flowers, 
To wade in clear green shallows, and swim 
Against the stream ; or, through the dim 

And quiet twilight, row for hours. 

Day long, night long, her spirit slept, 

Andliothing shook the sullen drowse ; 
Yet oft a shadowy pleasure crept 
All through her, where the boats were kept, 
Beneath the dangling willow boughs. 

She was so strong, she liked to feel 

Her rapid stroke lend wings to the boat ; 

The water dashing against the keel ; 

The wind in her face and hair ; the teal 
And plovers crying, the weeds afloat. 

Then only she — who was so far 
Behind the merest child of all — 



40 



The New Arcadia, 



Was prouder, stronger, than others are ; 
And she could row to the harbor bar 
And back, ten miles, ere night dews fall. 



PART n. 

But all the harvest long, forlorn, 

Unloosed, the boat rocked to and fro, 
While Janet slept from eve till morn, 
Dead-tired with gathering in the com 
From daybreak till the light was low. 

How glad she was when autumn whirled 

The slender yellowing willow leaves. 
When all the plants looked shrivelled and curled, 
And no more corn or fruit in the world 
Was left to gather under eaves. 



Janet Fisher, 41 



For then one evening, when the plain 

Was strangely bright i' the sun, and black 
With thunder and unfallen rain 
The sky, she sought her boat again, 

And bent the yielding branches back — 

The thinning willow boughs — and found 

A man, half-stripped, beside the boat. 
Burying hurriedly underground 
And heaping yellow leaves around 
A stained and faded soldier's coat. 

She stood behind him, nothing loth 
To watch his work unseen a span. 

For she was neither scared nor wroth ; 

The splendor of the scarlet cloth 

Engrossed her, not the haggard man. 

" Give me it ! " eager Janet said 

At last ; the man who heard her shook 



42 The New Arcadia, 

Alarmed, and turned his startled head. 
He was as wan and gray as the dead, 
And even Janet feared his look. 

" All 's up," he moaned. " Ay, call them out ! 

I 'm spent, you 're strong," he moaned ; — " hit hard, 
I 'm down. Don't stare so, woman ; shout ! 
Why, don't you know what you 're about ? 

I 'm a deserter — there's reward. 

" I 'm spent." But towards the scarlet coat 

He saw unheeding Janet go ; 
Then turned, and turning, saw the boat. 
" Oh, God ! " he cried, with straining throat, 

" Girl, will you help me ? " *^ I can row." 

Poor Janet ! — all those prayers were vain 

To reacl'Ttheji^communicable 
Dim soul in her ; and yet 't was plain 
He wished her, prayed her, tb -remain — 

And one thing only she could do vi^ls^ 



yanei Fisher. 43 



3he smiled. Her masters on the fen 
Bade^iie^^:^ Do this, bear such a load, 

Go there — for they were brutish men. 

But this marj.-s^ake her fair ; and, then 
Sje^onged to show him how well she rowed ! 



Within the boat she took her stand ; 

He followed her unquestioningly, 
Got in, sat down, at her command ; 
She pushed the boat off from the land. 

And, with the current, sought the sea. 

Fierce yellow sunlight, beetling clouds 
Heaped up in blackness overhead ; 
Still air, in whrdi..the beasts were cowed, 
And all the sounds were over-loud — 
Yet Janet felt no thrill of dread. 

Inland the sea-mc^Tfled, that know 
^Tiie earliest tempest-mutterings.; 



44 The New Arcadia, 

The swallows, skimming very low, 
Dipped, and a livid western glow 
Glanced off their sheeny underwings. 

On through the ominous dusk the bark 
That knew no fear, that had no soul, 
Made for the sea. How should it hark 
The wind, or see the air grow dark. 
Or feel the widening waters roll ? 

And soulless as itself, and rash, 

Janet rowed on, elate and proud ; 
And thankful to escape the lash. 
Her fellow heard no waters dash. 
And did not see the gathering cloud. 

Speechless he drowsed for many a mile, 

Sunk to inert fatigue, half dead ; 
At last : " It takes a long, long while," 
He muttered. Janet turned — her smile 
Filled all his veins with sudden dread. 



yanet Fisher. 45 




He started, shook the torpid drowse 

Off him like water ; all around 
The river heaved in waves ; and soughs 
And moans of wind began to arouse 

The storm ; he could not see the ground. 

walls of stormy air shut in ^^^^-^f^ 
^at ; above, a gloomy vault 
Shattered 1^ lightning ; roar and din 
Where sea^and hurtling stream begin 
^^^ Their desperate, endless rebuff and assault. 

" Woman ! " he shouted ; " mad- woman, speak ! — 

Why did you let me sleep so long? 
Is it the sea, the sea, you seek? " 
The tears fell into the spray on her cheek : 

" Help me," she wailed ; " I 'm spent, you 're strong." 

His words ! his prayer ! No safety, then, 
If she were mad j no means to_ayert 



46 The New Arcadia, 

The end. Far backwards lay the fen, 
And here, instead of a world of men, 
A danger no man shall desert. 

Had she gone mad, perhaps, from fright. 
This woman? '' Oh, my God ! " he cried ; 

'* To be alone at sea, by night ; 

Lost in a storm — no hope, no light, 
A maniac for my only guide ! " 

She crouched upon the lowest plank 

And cried, and dashed her hands in the wave 
That drenched her dress, and made so lank 
And straight her hair — that slowly sank 
Them down towards the engulfing grave. 

The man stooped down and looked at her, 
Half-blind with swirling spray of the sea. 
Horror, impotent wrath, despair 
At heart. What did she say? A prayer? 
" Poor crazy Janet ; pity me I " 



yanet Fisher, 47 



Then was he lost in very truth — 

How wild his hope ! how vain his trust ! 
This woman — this, his angel of ruth — 
Had lured him to his death ; in sooth, 
To kill her would be merely just. 

Should he kill her ? Sea and sky, 

In answering storms, heaved up, hung down ; 
They seemed to touch, they met so nigh. 
One moment more all else must die : 

Why should he kill her? Let her drown I 

" Help me ! " she shrieked. But who could swim 

In such a sea, — a toppling bank 
Of waves ? She sprang, and clung to him \ 
Then noise, hate, storm, death, all grew dim ; 

He caught her — tried to save her — sank. 

But when the storm was stilled at last, 
The fishers found him on the strand. 



48 The New Arcadia. 

One arm stretched out, still battling past 
The waves, it seemed, and clasping fast 
'A woman's corpse with one stiff hand. 

They knew him not, but her they knew ; 

Poor Janet, missed a day and night. 
Then, wind-uncovered, stained with dew, 
They found the coat ; the wonder grew, 

And the sad story came to light. 



V. 



THE ROTHERS. 



The Rothers, 51 



THE ROTHERS. 

As far as you can see, the moor 
Spreads on and on for many a mile, 

And hill and dale are covered o'er 
With many a fragrant splash and isle 

Of vivid heather, purple still, 

Though the bracken is yellow on dingle and hill. 

The heather bells are stiff and dry. 
Yet honey is sweet in the inmost cell ; 

The bracken 's withered that stands so high, 
But sleeping cattle love it well. — 

Thorny fern and honeyless heather, 

A friend who chills with the blighting weather. 



52 The New Arcadia. 

A mile towards the western sun 

The Rothers have their wooded park ; 

Never another so fair an one 

Sees from his poise the singing lark. 

When Rother of Rother first began 

Recks not the memory of man. 

It stands there still, a red old house, 
Rother, set round with branchy pines ; 

The heather is red beneath the boughs. 

And red are the trunks where the slant sun shines, 

And the earth is ruddy on hollow and height : 

But the blood of a Rother's heart is white. 

Right royal faces, none the less. 

And gracious ways when the world is kind ; 

But trust a Rother in your distress, — 
A hollow hemlock stem you find. 

Where you looked for a sapling to cling to and save 

You yet from the chasm below like a grave. 



The Rotkers. 53 



And now they are ended — the faithless race ; 

Sir Thomas was never a Rother born, 
He took the name when he took the place, 

With the childless wife whom he laughs to scorn : 
And his life is a cruel and evil life — 
But let none pity his craven wife. 

She — oh marvel of wonder and awe — 
O angered patience of God ! — I say 

God sees our sins ; for a sign I saw 
Set in the western skies one day — 

White, over Rother, white and pale 

For many a mile over hill and dale. 

Now let me make the marvel clear. 

When Edward, last of the Rothers, died 
He left two orphan daughters here : 

Little children who scarce could ride, 
Clutching the mane with baby hands, 
O'er half an acre of their lands. 



54 The New Arcadia, 

I think I see the sorrel mare, 

Staid, old ; and, tumbled on her neck, 

Flushed faces, dimpled arms, and hair 
Of crimpy flax with a golden fleck ; 

As by the side, with timid graces. 

Well to the fore, the prim nurse paces. 

A pretty cavalcade ! Ah well, 
The Rothers ever loved a horse ! 

And so one day Sir Edward fell. 

Out hunting ; dragged along the gorse 

For yards, one foot in the stirrups still, 

The hunters found him upon the hill. 

They brought him home as cold as stone, 
Into his house they bore him in ; 

Nor at his burial any one 

Was there to mourn him, of his kin, 

Save those two babies, grave and grand 

In black, who could not understand. 



The Rothers, 55 



Poor wondering children, clad in crape, 
Who knew not what they had to mourn, 

Careful their sash should keep its shape 
That papa, when he should return, 

Might praise each little stiff new gown — 

All day they never would sit down. 

Poor, childish mutes, they stood all day 
With outspread skirts and outspread hair, 

And baby lips, less pink than gray 

(So pale they were), and solemn stare ; 

They watched our mourning, pained and dumb, 

Wondering when papa would come, 

And give them each a ride on his horse. 
And toss them both in the air, and say 

" A Rother is sure in the saddle, of course. 
But never a Rother rode better than they," 

And send them up to bed at last 

To sleeo till morning, sound and fast. 



56 The New Arcadia. 

At last each whitish-flaxen head 
Drooped heavily, each baby-cheek 

Its pallid shadow-roses shed — 

The straight black legs grew soft and weak 

Father and frocks alike forgot 

They fell asleep, and sorrowed not. 

Yet pitiable they were, alone 

They were, twin heiresses of five. 

With lands and houses of their own, 
And never a friend in the world alive . 

Save one old great-aunt, over in France, 

Who knew them not, nor cared, perchance. 

We little fancied she would come — 
Quit palms, and sun, and table d'hote 

For two unknown little girls at home ; 
But soon there came a scented note 

With half the phrases underscored, 

And French at every second word. 



The Rot hers, 57 



And soon she followed, — she would sigh, 
And clasp her hands, and swear '' by God ; " 

Her black wig ever slipped awry. 
And quavered with a trembling nod ; 

Her face was powdered very white. 

Her black eyes danced under brows of night. 

Such paint ! Yet were I ever to feel 

Utterly lost, no saint I 'd pray. 
But, crooked of ringlets and high of heel, 

I 'd call to the rescue old Miss May ; 
No haloed angel sweet and slender. 
Were half so kind, so stanch, so tender. 

She loved the children well, but most 
The girl who least was like herself — 

Maudie, at worst a plaintive ghost, 
Maudie, at best a laughing elf, 

With eyes deep flowering under dew, 

Such tender looks of lazy blue. 



58 The New Arcadia. 

Florence was stronger, commonplace 
Perhaps, but good, sincere, and kind. 

There was no Rother in her face. 
There was no Rother I could find 

In her heart either ; but who knows ? 

My son shall not marry a daughter of Flo's. 

You see I hate the Rothers, I ! 

Unjust, perhaps, all are not vile 
It may be — but I cannot try. 

When I think of a Rother now, to smile. 
You hate the Irish, perhaps ? the Turks ? 
In every heart some hatred lurks. 

But these two girls I never hated, 

I thought them better than their race ; 

Who would not think a curse out-dated 
When from so fresh and young a face 

The Rother eyes looked frankly out, 

The Rother smile flashed no Rother's doubt? 



The Rot hers, 59 



Well, they were young, and wealthy, and fair ; 

It seemed not long since they were born, 
When Florence married Lawrence Dare, 

Then Maud, alas ! Sir Thomas Thorn, 
A bitter, dark, bad, cruel man 
Sir Thomas, now, of the Rother clan. 

For now we come to the very root 

Of the passionate rancor I keep at heart 

Flowering in words, but the bitter fruit 
Is still unripe for its sterner part. 

Well, Maud, too, married. Miss May was free 

To go. wherever she wished to be. 

Homeless, after so many years 

Of sacrifice ! Where could she go ? 

But she, she smiled, choked back her tears, 
" Of course," she said, " it must be so, — 

So kind, her girls, to let her come 

Three months to each in her married home ! " 



6o The New Arcadia, 

And first at Rother with the Thorns 
In her old home she stayed a guest ; 

But must I think of all the scorns 

That made your age a bitter jest, — 
Whose memory like a star appears 
Thro' the violent dark of that House of tears ? 

Your Maud was changed ; — a craven slave 

To her unloving husband now ; 
The bitter words she could not brave, 

The silent hatred of eyes and brow 
Estranged her not ; and oh, 't is true ! 
To gain his favor she slighted you. 

And yet you stayed ! And yet you stayed — 
Hoping to win your dear one back — 

Thinking through pain, not sin, she strayed 

From the old, good, well-known heavenly track. 

Alas, your lamb had gone too far — 

Farther from you than the farthest star. 



The Rot hers. 6i 



At last the three months ended ; then 

I heard Miss May was very ill ; 
It was the first of autumn when 

Our roads are bad, so I chose the hill 
And the brow of the moor, as I rode away 
To Rother, where my good friend lay. 

And now for my sunset. Is 't not strange 
That heaven, which sees a million woes 

Unmoved, should pale, and faint, and change 
At one more murder that it knows ? 

And yet I think I could declare 

A horror in that sunset's glare. 

As I was riding over the moor 

My back was turned to the blazing white 
Of the western sun, but all around 

The country caught the strange bright light ; 
The tufts of trees were yellow, not green ; 
Gray shadows hung like nets between. 



62 The New Arcadia. 

Such yellow colors on bush and tree ! 

Such sharp-cut shade and light I saw ! 
The white gates white as a star may be : 

But every scarlet hip and haw, 
Border of poppies, roof of red, 
Had lost its color, wan and dead ! 

So strange the east, that soon I turned 
To watch the shining west appear. 

Under a billow of smoke there burned 
A belt of blinding silver, sheer 

White length of light, wherefrom there shone 

A round, white, dazzling, rayless sun. 

There, mirror-like it hung and blazed, 
And all the earth below was strange, 

And all the scene whereon I gazed 

Even to the view-line's uttermost range 

Hill, steeple, moor, all near and far 

Was flat as shifting side-scenes are. 



The Rothers, 63 



Lifeless, a country in the moon 

It seemed, that white and vague expanse, 

So substanceless and thin, that soon 
I fell to wonder, by some chance 

Of a sketcher^s fancy — how would fare 

The tones of flesh in that strange white glare ? 

A freak of the painter's cautious eye 

Which notes all possible effect — 
I scarcely daub, but I love to try, — 

So, full of the whim, I recollect, 
I stretched my own right arm and gazed 
At the hand, quite black where the full light blazed. 

That was too near, I smiled and turned. 

And shook the reins and rode away, 
And looked where the eastern forest burned 

With its golden oaks. But who were they 
In the dog-cart, there, just under the trees ? 
They should prove my fancy ! A grip of the knees. 



64 The New Arcadia. 

And I reached them ; why, the Thorns they were, 
The Thorns livid, and clear, and plain 

In the ugly light, nor could I dare 

To ask if my friend were at ease or in pain ; 

So bitter-sour looked Maudie's mouth — 

The whole face dried like grass in a drouth. 

But what was that, see, pent like a calf 

That the butcher drives to the slaughter-house, 

Tied in the back of his cart, and half 
Already slain with the jolt of his brows 

On the planks of the side — oh, what was that 

Laid there, like deatli, laid prone and flat? 

What was that burden prone and weak — 

What was it, lying there behind 
Formless, helpless ? I could not speak, 

Nor in their eyes an answer find ; 
I stopped them, looked again, and saw — 
Oh, is there, then, on earth no law. 



The Rothers. 65 



No thunder in heaven ? On the floor 
It was, indeed, an old gray head 

That jerked from side to side ; no more. 
Only an old, gray woman dead 

Behind there, in the jolting cart, 

And a woman in front with a devil's heart. 

True, that indeed they did not know 
Miss May was dead, I grant ; enough. 

They thought her merely dying, and though 
The air was cold, the road was rough, 

Could say " Her three months' stay is o'er, 

She is our promised guest no more. 

" Now let her go to Florence Dare ; 

No need for us to nurse her, now ; 
The drive will do her good, the air 

Strike freshly on her fevered brow, 
And in the cart warm shawls are spread " — 
Where, as you know, I found her dead. 
5 



66 The New Arcadia. 

Because they cast her away, my friend, 
Because her nursling murdered her. 
There, my long story has an end 
• At last. I leave you to infer 

The moral old enough to be true : 
*' Do good, and it is done to you." 

But bid me not forgive and forget ; 

Forget my friend, forget a crime 
Because the county neighbors fret 

That I '11 not meet at dinner-time 
Ingratitude and murder? Nay, 
Touch pitch and be defiled, I say. 



VI. 
COTTAR'S GIRL. 



Cottars Girl. 69 



COTTAR'S GIRL. 

The lilac boughs at Cottar's farm 
Were sprouting into spikes of red, 

The April sun was scarcely warm 
When first of all I heard it said 
That Cottar's girl was ill or dead. 

There was no otlier doctor near 
For many miles, so I set out. 

Wondering I was left to hear ; 

They had not sent ; sudden, no doubt. 
Poor child, to die when lilacs sprout. 

Sixteen years old, poor Cecily ! 
I never thought her very strong. 



70 The New Arcadia, 

And yet the very soul of glee, 

Always ready with laugh and song ; 
Such vivid natures last not long. 

Over merry, the least surprise 

Would turn her pale and like to faint ; 

Slender, with such thin hands, and eyes 
Too bright ; the sort of girl to paint, 
But not to marry ; a hectic saint. 

Hysteric to the last degree ; 

But yet there was no cause for death, 

No cause in that, poor Cecily. 
She was her parents' very breath, 
Their only child, love, hope, and faith. 

She was so different from them, 
The stern, decorous, formal pair ; 

To see her stitching at her hem. 
Or spelling out the Sunday prayer, 
Was youth and laughter in the air. 



Cottars Girl. 71 



They chided her and said her name 
Was^ one that sober yeomen bore ; 

She laughed ; they loved her all the same, 
Perhaps they loved her all the more ; 
No Cottar was so gay before. 

Ah, well, they '11 miss her ! There the house, 
Severely white, stood fronting me. 

I passed beneath the Hlac boughs, 
The palest buds were gone. Ah me, 
I thought, they 're plucked for Cecily. 

Perhaps it was the heavy day, 

Perhaps because she was sixteen ; 

But, for some cause I cannot say, 
I missed the girl, who had not been 
My friend, among the tender green. 

I now recall how long I knocked 

Before the mother raised the latch, — 



72 The New Arcadia, 

The mother, with her smile that mocked, 
Tne sinuous brows that did not match, 
And eyes that always seemed to watch. 

Not then she smiled ; " She 's gone," she said. 

" My Cecily 's gone ; she died last night. 
She went to sleep and she was dead. 

No pain." She stared like one at bay; 

And then she asked me would I say 

The cause of death ; and I was glad 
In all that gloom to be of aid. 

I stepped within the chamber sad. 

Where, stiff beneath the white, was laid 
The shrouded body of the maid. 

And by his httle daughter's bier 
The farmer, huddled in his coat, 

Looked heavier for his grief and fear, 
As I have seen a stranded boat 
Look larger than it did afloat. 



Cottars Girl. 73 



A little while we did not speak, 
I stood beside the hallowed bed, 

And looked at Cecily ; her cheek 
Was rounded still, was scarcely dead. 
" What did she die of ? " then I said. 

None spoke. I saw the mother glance 
Sharp at the hulking, silent man. 

Who did not speak and looked askance. 
And as I waited for a span 
The dead girl grew more drawn and wan. 

At last I raised my voice again, 

And then, " She choked," the mother said, 

"But yet I think she felt no pain." 
'T was then I saw above the bed 
A jug half filled with shotted lead. 

At first I merely saw ; I swear 

It was the mother's eyes, not mine, 



74 The New Arcadia. 

That made me as I looked at her 
Perceive, or rather half divine, 
Why that jar was an evil sign. 



And, swift as sight, the whole grew plain. 
I knew that I had heard or read 

A village nostrum, cruel, vain, 

That dosed poor choking girls with lead, 
To sink the ball i' the throat, it said. 



A vile fantastic remedy. 

Ignorant poison. Ob, I thought 

I could have fairly raged to see 

The farmer grown quite old, distraught. 
And Cecily dead — and all for naught. 

I took the jar, " But how," I cried, 

** Could such a deed be done by you ! " 



Cottars Girl. 75 



The woman looked at me and sighed : 
" I was her mother, sir ; I knew 
There was no other thing to do." 

Old Cottar gave nor sign nor word, 
And when I made him understand 

He shifted not his head nor stirred, 
But muttered feebly in his hand : 
" She minds the house, and I the land." 

There was no getting at the truth ; 
Besides, I think he did not know : 

They would not kill their child forsooth ! 
It seemed a hopeless tangle, so 
I rose at length and meant to go. 

But, as I turned, the mother came. 
Asked me to write a pack of lies, 

To sign the death with some forged name 
And something in that woman's eyes 
Filled me with horrible surmise. 



76 The New Arcadia. 

I stooped above their daughter dear, 
Not yet disgraceful, only dead. 

Beneath the lilacs on the bier. 

Crushed in the corpse, an unborn dread 
Weighed heavier than their murderous lead. 



VII. 
THE WISE-WOMAN. 



The Wise- Woman. 79 



THE WISE-WOMAN. 

In the last low cottage in Blackthorn Lane 

The Wise-woman lives alone ; 
The broken thatch lets in the rain. 
And the glass is shattered in every pane 

With stones the boys have thrown. 

For who would not throw stones at a witch, 

Take any safe revenge 
For the father's lameness, the mother's stitch, 
The sheep that died on its back in a ditch. 

And the mildewed corn in the grange ? 

Only be sure to be out of sight 
Of the witch's baleful eye ! 



8o The New Arcadia. 



So tlie stones, for the most, are thrown at night, 
Then a scuffle of feet, a hurry of fright — 
How fast those urchins fly ! 

And a shattered glass is gaping sore 

In the ragged window frame, 
Or a horseshoe nailed against the door, 
Whereunder the witch should pass no more. 

Where sayings and doings the same. 

The witch's garden is run to weeds, 

Never a phlox or a rose, 
But infamous growths her brewing needs. 
Or slimy mosses the rank soil breeds. 

Or tares such as no man sows. 

This is the house. Lift up the latch — 

Faugh, the smoke and the smell ! 
A broken bench, some rags that catch 
The drip of the rain from the broken thatch — 

Are these the wages of Hell ? 



The Wise- Woman, 8i 

Is it for this she earns the fear 

And the shuddering hate of her kind ? 
To moulder and ache in the hovel here, 
With the horror of death ever brooding near, 

And the terror of what is behind ? 

The witch — who wonders ? — is bent with cramp, 

Satan himself cannot cure her, 
For the beaten floor is oozing damp, 
And the moon, through the roof, might serve for a lamp, 

Only a rushlight 's surer. 

And here some night she will die alone, 

When the cramp clutches tight at her heart. 
Let her cry in her anguish, and sob, and moan, 
The tenderest woman the village has known 
Would shudder — but keep apart. 

Should she die in her bed ! A likelier chance 
Were the dog's death, drowned in the pond. 
6 



82 The New Arcadia, 

The witch when she passes it looks askance : 
They ducked her once, when the horse bit Nance ; 
She remembers, and looks beyond. 

P'or then she had perished in very truth. 

But the Squire's son, home from college, 
Rushed to the rescue, himself forsooth 
Plunged after the witch. — Yes, I hke the youth 
For all his new-fangled knowledge. 

How he stormed at the cowards ! What a rage 

Heroic flashed in his eyes ! 
But many a struggle and many an age 
Must pass ere the same broad heritage 

Be given the fools and the wise. 

" Cowards ! " he cried. He was lord of the land, 

He was mighty to them, and rich. 
They let him rant ; but on either hand 
They shrank from the devil's unseen brand 

On the sallow face of the witch. 



The Wise-Woman, ^-^ 



They let him rant ; but deep in each heart 
Each thought of some thing of his own 

Wounded or hurt by the Wise-woman's art ; 

Some friend estranged, or some lover apart. 
Each heart grew cold as stone. 

And the Heir spoke on, in his eager youth, 

His blue eyes full of flame ; 
And he held the witch, as he spoke of the Truth ; 
And the dead, cold Past ; and of Love and of Ruth 

But their hearts were still the same. 

Till at last — '' For the sake of Christ who died, 

Mother, forgive them," he said. 
" Come, let us kneel, let us pray ! " he cried. 
But horror-stricken, aghast, from his side 

The witch broke loose and fled ! 

Fled right fast from the brave amends 
He would make her then and there, 



84 The New Arcadia, 

From the chance that heaven so seldom sends 
To turn our bitterest foes to friends, — 
Fled at the name of a prayer. 



Poor lad, he stared so ; amazed and grieved. 

He had argued nearly an hour ; 
And yet the beldam herself believed, 
No less than the villagers she deceived. 

In her own unholy power ! 



Though surely a witch should know very well 

'T is the lie for which she will burn. 
She surely has learned that the deepest spell 
Her art includes could never compel 
A quart of cream to turn. 



And why, knowing this, should one sell one's soul 
To gain such a life as hers, — 



The Wise-Woman, 85 



The life of the bat and the burrowing mole, — 
To gain no vision and no control, 
Not even the power to curse ? 

'T is strange, and a riddle still in my mind 

To-day as well as then. 
There 's never an answer I could find 
Unless — O folly of humankind ! 

O vanity born with men ! 

Rather it may be than merely remain 

A woman poor and old. 
No longer like to be courted again 
For the sallow face deep lined with pain, 

Or the heart grown sad and cold. 

Such bitter souls may there be, I think. 

So craving the power that slips, 
Rather than lose it, they would drink 
The waters of Hell, and lie at the brink 

Of the grave, with eager lips. 



86 The New Arcadia. 

Who sooner would, than slip from sight, 

Meet every eye askance ; 
Whom threatened murder can scarce affright ; 
Who sooner would live as a plague and a blight 

Than just be forgotten ; perchance. 



VIII. 
MEN AND MONKEYS. 



Meii and Monkeys, 89 



MEN AND MONKEYS. 

The hawthorn lane was full of flower ; 
On the white hedge the apple-trees 
Sent down with every gust of breeze 

A light, loose-petalled blossom-shower. 

The wide green edges of the lane 

Were filmed with faint valerian ; white 
Archangels tall, the bees' delight, 

Sprang lustier for the morning's rain. 

The scent of May was heavy-sweet ; 
The noon poured down upon the land, 
The nightingales on either hand 

Called, and were silent in the heat. 



90 The New Arcadia. 

For even in the distant deep 

Green-lighted forest glades, the noon 
Grown heavy with excess of boon, 

Weighed all the sultry earth to sleep. 

The herds, the flowers, the nightingales 
All drowsed ; and I upon the edge 
Of grass beneath the flowering hedge 

Lay dreaming of its shoots and trails. 

When, starting at the sound of feet, 
I saw the Italian vagrants pass ; 
The monkey, man, and peasant lass. 

Who figure on our village street 

At race-time in the spring ; nor song. 
Caper, nor hurdy-gurdy tune 
Seemed left in them this blazing noon 

As wearily they trudged along. 



Men and Monkeys. 91 

Their sallow faces drawn, their eyes 
Fixed on the miles of dust that went 
Before them, their round shoulders bent 

Beneath a load of vanities. 

The man tramped first, upon his back 
The hurdy-gurdy, with an ape 
Who strained his lean and eager shape 

Towards the woman's gayer pack 

Of rags and ribbons. What a sight 
Among the blossoms and the green ! 
I think there never can have been 

A stranger shadow in the light. 

They did not pause to look upon 

The apple-blossom and the may ; 

They only saw the dust that they 
Raised in their dismal trudging on. 



92 The New Arcadia, 

They did not even stop to hear 

The rare sweet call of the nightingale ; 
The hurdy-gurdy's squeak and yell 

Was too accustomed in their ear. 

I watched them plod their stolid way 
Still on ; but suddenly I heard 
The monkey mimic the singing-bird, 

And snatch a trail of the flowering may. 

And down the road I saw him still 

Catching and clutching the blossom white, 
And waving his long, black arms in delight, 

Until they passed over the brow of the hill. 



IX. 
CHURCH-GOING TIM. 



Ckurck-Going Tim. 95 



CHURCH-GOING TIM. 

Tim Black is bedridden, you say? 

Well now, I 'm sorry. Poor old Tim ! 
There 's not in all the place to-day 

A soul as will not pity him. 

These twenty years, come hail, come snow, 
Come winter cold, or summer heat, 

Week after week to church he 'Id go 
On them two hobbling sticks for feet. 

These years he 's gone on crutches. Yet 
One never heard the least complaint. 

And see how other men will fret 
At nothing ; Tim was quite a saint. 



96 The New Arcadia, 

And now there 's service every day, 
I say they keep it up for him ; 

We busier ones, we keep away — 
There 's mostly no one there but Tim. 

Yes, quite a saint he was. Although 

He never was a likely man 
At his own trade ; indeed, I know 

Many 's the day I 've pitied Nan. 

She had a time of it, his wife. 

With all those children and no wage, 

As like as not, from Tim. The life 

She led ! She looked three times her age. 

The half he had he 'Id give to tramps 
If they were hungry, or it was cold — 

Pampering up them idle scamps. 

While Nan grew lean and pinched and old. 



Church-Going Tim, 97 

He 'Id let her grumble. Not a word 

Or blow from him she ever had — 
And yet I Ve heard her sigh, and heard 

Her say she wished as he was bad. 

Atop of all the fever came ; 

And Tim went hobbling past on sticks. 
Still one felt happier, all the same, 

When he 'Id gone by to church at six. 

Not that I wished to go. Not I ! 

With Joe so wild, and all those boys — 
It takes my day to clean, and try 

To settle down the dust and noise. 

But still — out of it all, to glance 

And see Tim hobbling by so calm, 
As though he heard the angels' chants 

And saw their branching crowns of palm. 
7 



The New Arcadia. 



And when he smiled, he had a look, 
One's burden seemed to loose and roll 

Like Christian's in the picture-book : 
It was a comfort, on the whole. 

It made one easier-like, somehow — 
It made one, somehow, feel so sure, 

That far above the dust and row 
The glory of God does still endure. 

You say he 's well, though he can't stir : 
I 'm sure you mean it kind — But, see, 

It 's not for him I 'm crying, sir, 
It 's not for Tim, sir ; it 's for me. 



X 



THE SCHOOL CHILDREN. 



The School Children. loi 



THE SCHOOL CHILDREN. 

These at least are clean and fresh, 

All I wished to see ! 
Hair a flaxen flossy mesh, 

Waving loose and free 
Round their ruddy English flesh. 

Now at last they 're out of school, 

Happy, happy time ! 
Now a truce to book and rule. 

Task in prose or rhyme, 
Thought of prize or dunce's stool. 

How they laugh and run about ! 
What if now and then 



I02 The New Arcadia, 

Somewhat overloud a shout 

Reach you busier men ; 
Could the children play without ? 

What, you call them rude and rough, 

Overprone to strife ? 
Still I find them good enough 

For such eager life ; 
What should they be thinking of ? 

Though they know a mint of things. 

So their mothers say, 
Read and write, and rattle strings 

And strings of dates away, 
Bible judges, English kings, 

I, for one, should never dare 

Such a gage to fate. 
As to stand with any there 

Pouring name and date, 
Faster, faster . . . . O despair ! 



The School Children, 103 

That one passed in Euclid, look ! 

This can draw and sing ! 
And the giris, I think, can cook 

Any mortal thing : 
So they quote their cookery-book. 

Ah — you cry — too much they know 

For their lowlier rank ; 
Teach them but to plant and hoe, 

But to beg and thank, 
For the clown needs keeping low. 

Nay, but listen, neighbor, pray — 

Once a Flemish seer, 
David Joris, so they say, 

Saw in trance appear 
Kings and knights in great array. 

Through his twilit painting-room 
Stalk the sombre host, 



I04 The New Arcadia, 

Priests and prelates grandly loom — 

Every one a ghost, 
Silent as the silent gloom. 

Very sad and over-worn, 

Pale and very old, 
Look the solemn brows that mourn 

Under crowns of gold. 
Grown too heavy to be borne. 

Kings and priests, and all so gray, 

All so faint and wan, 
Drifting past in still array. 

Ever drifting on, 
Till at length he saw them stay. 

Saw a second vision rise 

Through the twilit air, 
Heard what laughter and lisping cries. 

Saw what tumbled hair. 
Rosy hmbs and rounded eyes ! 



The School Children, 105 

Playing children — much the same 

As we see them here, 
Laughing in a merry game — 

Rose before him clear ; 
But they clove the dusk like flame. 

Heeding not the ghostly throng, 

David heard them sing ; 
At the echo of their song 

Saw each ghostly king 
Lift his eyes, look hard and long. 

Till at length, as when a breeze 

Bends the rushes well, 
Captains, kings, great sovereignties. 

Bent, and bowed, and fell. 
Kneeling all upon their knees. 

Laying at the children's feet 
Each his kingly crown. 



io6 The New Arcadia. 

Each, the conquering power to greet. 

Laying humbly down 
Sword and sceptre, as is meet. 

Then, unkinged and dispossessed, 

Rose the weary host, 
Glad at last to cease and rest ; 

For to every ghost 
Comes the time when peace is best. 

Since our crowns must fall to them. 
When beyond our reach 

Falls our dearest diadem, 
Neighbor, let us teach 

Every child to prize the gem. 

For, be sure, the new things grow 

As the old things fade. 
As we train the children, so 

Is the future made 
That shall reign when we are low. 



The School Children. 107 

All the work we would have wrought 

Must by them be done ; 
We shall pass ; but not our thought, 

While in every one 
Lives the lesson that we taught. 



EPILOGUE TO THE NEW ARCADIA. 

The stimted lives from hunger never free, 

The crowded towns, the moors where ?iever hoe 
Stirs in the fallow soil, where live and grow 

The grouse and pheasant where the man should be. 

The shiftless, hopeless, long, brute misery 
That gathers like a cloud, racked to a?zdfro 
With lightning discontent — / cannot show, 

I camiot say the dreadful things I see. 

And worse I see, more spectral, deathlierfar : 
Class set from class, each in its separate groove ; 
Straight on to death, I watch them stiffly move, 

None sees the end, but each his separate star ; 

Too wrapt, should any fall, to reach a hand ; 

Nor, should one cry, would any understand. 



POEMS, 



I. 

LOSS. 



LOSS. 

Dead here in Florence ! Yes, she died. 
The prophesying doctors Hed 
Who swore tlie South should save her life. 
But no, she died, my Httle wife. 

I brought her South ; the whole, long way 
She was as curious and as gay 
As a young bird that tries its wing, 
And halts to look at everything. 

O sudden-turning little head, 
Dear eyes — dear, changing, wistful eyes — 
Your love, your eager life, now lies 
Under this earth of Florence, dead. 
8 



114 The New Arcadia, 

All of her dead except the Past — 
The finished Past, that cannot grow — 
But that, at least, will always last, 
Mocking, consoling, Life-in-show. 

Will that fade too ? Seven days ago 
She was alive and by my side, 
And yet I cannot now divide 
The pallid, gasping girl who died 
From her I used to love and know. 

Only in moments lives the Past ; 
One like a sunlit peak stands out 
Above the blurring mist and doubt, 
Into which all is fading fast. 

All night the train has rushed through France, 
I watch the shaken lamp-hght dance 
Over my darhng's sleeping face. 
And now the engine slackens pace 



Loss. 

And staggers up the mountain side ; 
And now the depths of night divide 
And let a lighter darkness through, 
A tangible, dim smoke of blue 
That lights the world, and is not Light, 
Before the dawn, beyond the night. 

The vapor clings about the grass 
And makes its greenness very green. 
Through it the tallest pine-tops pass 
Into the night, and are not seen. 
A little wind begins to stir. 
The haze grows colorless and bright, 
Thicker and darker springs the fir. 
The train swings slowly up the height, 
Each mile more slowly swings the train. 
Before the mountains, past the plain. 

And through the light that is not day 
I feel her now as there she lay 



115 



ii6 The New Arcadia. 



Close in my arms, and still asleep ; 
Close in my arms, so dear, so dear ; 
I hold her close, and warm, and near. 
Who sleeps where it is cold and deep. 

That is my boasted memory ; 
That, — the impression of a mood, 
Effects of light on grass and wood, 
Such things as I shall often see. 

But Her ! God, I may try in vain, 
I shall not ever see her again — 
She will never say one new word. 
Scarce echo one I often heard. 
Even in dreams she is not quite here — 
Flitting, escaping still. I fear 
Her voice will go, her face be blurred 
Wholly, as long year follows year. 

Often enough I think I have got 

The turn of her head and neck, but not 



Loss, 1 1 7 

The face — never the face that speaks. 

My mind goes seeking, and seeks and seeks. 

Sometimes, indeed, I feel her at hand, 
Sometimes feel sure she will understand. 
If only I do not look or think .... 
Out of an empty cup I drink ! 

Down Lung' Arno again to-day 

I went alone the self-same way 

I walked with her, and heard her tell 

What she would do when she was well. 

All else the same. Upon the hill 
White Samminiato watching still 
Among its pointing cypresses. 
And that long, farthest Apennine 
Still lifts a dusky, reddish line 
Against the blue. How warm it is ! 
And every tower and every bridge 



ii8 The New Arcadia. 

Stands crisp and sharp in the brilliant air ; 
Only along the mountain ridge 
And on the hill- spurs everywhere 
The olives are a smoke of blue. 
Until upon the topmost height 
They pale into a livid white 
Against the intense, clear, salient hue 
Of that mid-heaven's azure light. 

This, for one day, my darling knew. 

We meant to rest here, passing through. 
How pleased she was with everything ! 
But most that winter was away 
So soon, and birds began to sing ; 
For all the streets were full of flowers, 
The sky so blue above the towers — 
Just such a day as it is to-day, 
When in the sun it feels like May, 



Loss. 1 1 9 

So here I pace where the sun is warm, 

With no hght weight dragging my arm, 

Here in the sun we hoped would save — 

O sunny portal of the grave, 

Florence, how well I know your trick ! 

Lay all the walls with sunshine thick 

As paint ; put colors in the air. 

Strange southern trees upon your slopes. 

And make your streets at Christmas fair 

With flourish of roses, fill with hopes 

And wonder all who gaze on you, 

Lovehest town earth ever knew ! 

Then, presto ! take them unaware 

With a blast from an open grave behind — 

The icy blast of the wind — a knife 

Thrust in one's back to take one's life. 

Oh, 't is an excellent, cunning snare, 

For the flowers grow on, and do not mind 

(Who sees, if the petals be thickened and pocked ?) 

And the olive, and cypress, and ilex grow on. 



I20 The New Arcadia, 

It is only the confident heart that is mocked, 
It is only the dehcate life that is gone ! 

How I hate it, all this mask ! 
Those beggars really seem to bask 
In this mock sunshine ; even I am 
Faint in it ; but it is all a sham, 
It is all a pretence — it is all a he — 
Have I not seen my darhng die? 

Those mocking, leering, thin- faced apes, 
Who twang their sharp guitars all night, 
They are quite thin, unreal shapes. 
The figures of a mirage-show. 
They do not really live, I know ; 
But once I heard them swear and fight, 
" God, the Stab-in-the-dark ! " they cried. 
The mask fell off then. Yes, she died. 



II. 

TUSCAN OLIVES. 



Tuscan Olives. 123 



TUSCAN OLIVES. 
(rispetti.) 

I. 

The color of the olives who shall say ? 

In winter on the yellow earth they 're blue, 
A wind can change the green to white or gray, 

But they are olives still in every hue ; 
But they are olives always, green or white, 
As love is love in torment or delight ; 
But they are olives, ruffled or at rest. 
As love is always love in tears or jest. 



1 24 The New A^xadia. 



II. 

We walked along the terraced olive-yard, 

And talked together till we lost the way ; 
We met a peasant, bent with age, and hard. 
Bruising the grape-skins in a vase of clay ; 
Bruising the grape-skins for the second wine. 
We did not drink, and left him. Love of mine. 
Bruising the grapes already bruised enough : 
He had his meagre wine, and we our love. 



Tuscan Olives, 125 



III. 

We climbed one morning to the sunny height, 
Where chestnuts grow no more, and ohves grow ; 

Far-off the circling mountains cinder- white. 
The yellow river and the gorge below. 

" Turn round," you said, O flower of Paradise ; 

I did not turn, I looked upon your eyes. 

"Turn round," you said, " turn round, look at the view ! 

I did not turn, my Love, I looked at you. 



126 The New Arcadia. 



IV. 

How hot it was ! Across the white-hot wall 

Pale olives stretch towards the blazing street ; 
You broke a branch, you never spoke at all, 

But gave it me to fan with in the heat ; 
You gave it me without a sign or word, 
And yet, my love, I think you knew I heard. 
You gave it me without a word or sign : 
Under the olives first I called you mine. 



Tuscan Olives. 127 



V. 

At Lucca, for the autumn festival, 

The streets are tulip-gay ; but you and I 
Forgot them, seeing over church and wall 

Guinigi's tower soar i' the black-blue sky, 
A stem of delicate rose against the blue, 
And on the top two lonely olives grew, 
Crowning the tower, far from the hills, alone, 
As on our risen love our lives are grown. 



128 The New Arcadia, 



VI. 

Who would have thought we should stand again together, 
Here, with the convent a frown of towers above us ; 

Here, mid the sere-wooded hills and wintry weather ; 
Here, where the olives bend down and seem to love us ; 

Here, where the fruit-laden olives half remember 

All that began in their shadow last November ; 

Here, where we knew we must part, must part and sever ; 

Here where we know we shall love for aye and ever ? 



Tuscan Olives, 129 



VII. 

Reach up and pluck a branch, and give it me, 
That I may hang it in my Northern room, 

That I may find it there, and wake, and see 

— Not you ! not you ! — dead leaves and wintry 
gloom. 

O senseless olives, wherefore should I take 

Your leaves to balm a heart that can but ache ? 

Why should I take you hence, that can but show 

How much is left behind ? I do not know. 



III. 
STORNELLI AND STRAMBOTTl. 



Stornelli a7td Sirambotti. 133 



STORNELLI AND STRAMBOTTI. 

Flower of the Vine ! 

I scarcely knew or saw how Love began ; 

So mean a flower brings forth the sweetest wine \ 

I said : " My love is like a basil-flower, 

And none will see it, pallid and minute, 
For, look, the roses hang from every bower, 

The pomegranates bow down with scarlet fruit." 
" Upon the ledge," you said, " for every hour 

We choose not these, we choose the basil-root. 
The sweet of roses is too near a sour 

With every change of every mood to suit." 



134 1^^^ New Arcadia. 

Flowers in the hay ! 

My heart and all the fields are full of flowers ; 
So tall they grow before the mowing-day. 

" As beats the sea against the rocks ! " you cried, 

"Against your stubborn will my soul is hurl'd." 
You meant the seeming-daunted broken tide, 

With scattered spray and shattered crests uncurl'd, 
That, from the shore, we pity or deride ; 

And yet these dying waters, spent and swirl'd, 
Their stony limits do themselves decide, 

And fashion to their will the unconscious world. 

Rose in the rain ! 

We part ; I dare not look upon your tears ; 

So frail, so white ; they shatter, bruise, and stain. 



IV. 
LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS. 



Love Among the Saints. 137 



LOVE AMONG THE SAINTS. 

At Assisi in the Church 

Well I know the frescoed wall, 

Colors dim, Martyrs slim, 
Saints you scarcely see at all, 

Till the slanting sunbeams search 

Through the church, 

Waking life where'er they fall. 

Every evening wall and vault, 
Saint and city, starts and wakes, 

One by one, as the sun 

Broadens through the dusk, and makes 

Grays and reds and deep blue smalt 

Of the vault 
Teem with Saints, and towers, and lakes. 



138 The New Arcadia, 

High among them, clear to see, 
Is one stately fresco set ; 

There they stand, hand in hand, 
Bride and bridegroom gravely met, 

Francis and Saint Poverty. 

Well I see 

All the Saints attending, yet. 

Close their ranks by groom and bride ; 

Straight their faces, clear and pure ; 
Pale in stain, pale and plain, 

Fall their ample robes demure. 
Grave, these goodly friends beside. 
Stands the bride, 

Shorn of every earthly lure. 

But, when I was there to look, 
Not Saint Agnes nor Saint Clare 

(Tall and faint, like a saint) 
But a naked captive there 



Love Among the Saints, 139 



Fast my wandering fancy took ; 
Still I look, 

Vainly, for that face and hair. 

For, amid the saintly light. 
From the faded fresco starts. 

Fair and pale, thin and frail. 

Round his neck a chain of hearts, 

Love himself in mazed affright, 

Out of sight 

Of his altar and his darts. 

Starved and naked, wan and thin, 

Beautiful in his distress. 
Crouches Love, whom above 

All the saints in glory bless. 
Here he may not enter in, 
Cold and thin, 

Naked, with no wedding-dress. 



140 The New Arcadia. 

From the altar and the shrine 

One turns round in frowning grace, 

Bids the wild, naked child, 
Swiftly leave the holy place. 

Not for thee the bread and wine 

On the shrine. 

Starving god of alien race ! 

Yet, O Warder, was it wise 

Thus to spurn him ? Was it well ? 

Love is strong, lasting long. 

Him thou canst not bind in Hell ; 

Scourge him, burn, he never dies, 

Phoenix-wise 

Riseth he unconquerable. 

Only martyred Love returns 
With an altered face and air ; 

Not a child, sweet and mild, 
Fit for daily kiss and care, 



Love Among the Saints. 141 

But a spirit which aches and burns, 
Swift he turns 

All your visions to despair. 

Love you cannot reach or find. 

Love that aches within the soul, 
Vague and faint, till the Saint 

Cries, beyond his own control, 
For some answer that his blind 
Soul can find 

But in its own vain diastole. 

Ah, beware ! That phantom Love 

Drives to madness, and destroys. 
Yet, to all Love must call. 

Only we may choose the voice. 
And whate'er we are or prove, 
Loathe or love, 

Hangs upon that instant's choice. 



V. 



JUTZI SCHULTHEISS. 



yHtzi Schtiltheiss. 145 



JUTZl SCHULTHEISS. 

TOSS, 1300. 

[Jiitzi Schultheiss, a mediaeval Mystic, loses her gifts of trance 
and vision, because in a moment of anger she refuses to pray for 
some turbulent knights.] 

The gift of God was mine ; I lost 
For aye tlie gift of Pentecost. 

I never knew why God bestowed 

On me the vision and the load ; 

But what He wills I have no will 

To question, blindly following still 

The hand that even from my birth 

Hath shown me Heaven, forbidding Earth. 

I was a child when first I drew 

In sight of God ; a subtle, new, 



146 The New Arcadia, 

Faint happiness had drawn about 
My soul, and shut the whole earth out. 
Yet I was sick. I lay in bed 
So weak I could not lift my head — 
So weak, and yet so quite at rest, 
Pillowed upon my Saviour's breast 
It seemed. Then suddenly I felt 
Great wings encompass me and dwelt 
Silent awhile in awe and fear. 
While swiftly nearer and more near 
Descended God. A stream of white 
Shining, intolerable light. 
Blinded my eyes and all grew dim. 
Then stilled in trance I dwelt with Him 
A little while in perfect peace. 
Till, fold by fold, the dark withdrew, 
I felt the heavenly blessing cease, 
And angels swiftly bear me through 
The dizzy air in lightning flight 
Till here I woke, and it was night. 



yntzi Schultheiss, 147 

My mother wept beside my bed, 

My brothers prayed ; for I was dead. 

Then, when my soul was given back, 

I cried, as wretches on the rack 

Cry in the last quick wrench of pain. 

And breathed, and looked, and lived again. 

Ah me, what tears of joy there fell ! 

How they all cried, " A miracle ! " 

And kissed me given back to earth, 

The dearer for that second birth 

To her who bore me first. Ah me, 

How glad we were ! Then Anthony, 

My brother, spoke : " What God has given," 

He said, " Let us restore to Heaven." 

And as he spoke beneath the rod 

I bowed, and gave myself to God. 

Not suddenly the gift returned. 
Alas ! methinks too much I yearned 
For the old earthly joys, the home 



148 The New Arcadia. 

That I had left for evermore ; 

The garden with its herbs, and store 

Of hives filled full of honeycomb ; 

The lambs and calves that chiefly were, 

Of all we had, my special care ; 

My brothers, too, all left behind, 

All, for some other girl to find ; 

And she who loves me everywhere, 

My mother, whom I often kissed 

In absence with vain lips that missed 

My mother more than God above. 

Much bound was I with earthly love. 

So slight my strength, I never could 

Have freed myself from servitude. 

But He who loves us saw my pain. 

And with one blow struck free my chain. 

Weeping I knelt within the gloom 

One evening in my convent room. 

Trying with all my heart to pray, 

And weeping that my thoughts would stray ; 



Jutzi Schultheiss, 149 

When suddenly again I felt 

The unearthly light and rest ; I dwelt 

Rapt in mid-heaven the whole night through, 

And through my cell the angels flew, 

The angels sang, the angels shone. 

The Saints in glory, one by one. 

Floated to God ; and under Him 

Circled the shining Seraphim. 

Now from that day my heart was free, 

And I was God's ; then gradually 

The convent learned the solemn truth, 

And they were glad because my youth 

Was pleasing in the sight of Him 

Who filled my spirit to the brim. 

They wrote my visions down and made 

A treasure of the words I said. 

And far and wide the news was spread 

That I by God was visited. 

Then many sought our convent's door, 



150 The New Arcadia. 

And lands and dower began to pour 
With blessings on our house ; for thus 
Men praised the Lord who favored us. 

For seven long years the gift was mine, 
I often saw the angels shine 
Suddenly down the cloister's dark 
Deserted length at night ; and oft 
At the high mass I seemed to mark 
A stranger music, high and soft, 
That swam about the heavenly Cup, 
And caught our ruder voices up ; 
And often, nay, indeed at will, 
I would lie back and let the still 
Cold trance creep over me — and see 
Mary and all the Saints flash by. 
Till only God was left and I. 

The gift of God was mine ; I lost 
For aye the gift of Pentecost. 



Jutzi Schultheiss. 151 

Now sometimes in the summer time 

I stood beneath the orchard trees, 

And in their boughs I heard the breeze 

Keep on a low continuing rhyme, 

And nothing else was heard beside 

The litde birds that sang and cried 

Their Latin to the praise of God. 

And under foot new grass I trod, 

And overhead the light was green, 

And all the boughs were starred and gay 

With apple-blossoms in between 

The fresh young leaves as sweet as they. 

And as I looked upon the sun. 

Who made these fair things every one 

To sprout and sing and wax so strong. 

My whole heart turned into a song. 

" For, God," I thought, " this sun art Thou, 

And Thou art in the orchard bough, 

And in the grass whereon I tread, 

And in the bird- song overhead, 



152 The New Arcadia, 

And in my soul and limbs and voice, 

And in my heart which must rejoice — 

God ! " And my song stopped weak and dazed, 

I seemed upon the very verge 

Of some great brink, wherefrom amazed 

My soul shrank back, lest should emerge 

Thence — Nay, what then ? What should I fear ? 

I to whom God was known and dear? 

Once so possessed with God, I stood 
In prayer within the orchard wood. 
When some one softly called my name, 
And shattered all my happy mood. • 
Towards me an ancient Sister came, 
" Quick, Jiitzi, to the hall ! " she cried ; 
And swiftly after her I hied. 
And swiftly reached the convent hall. 
Now full of struggle and loud with brawl. 

Close to the door aghast I stayed, 
Too much indignant and afraid 



yutzi ScIiMltheiss. 153 

To ask who wrought this blasphemy. 

Then the old nun crept nearer me, 

And whispered how some knights to-day, 

Riding to Zurich's tourney-fray. 

Had craved our shelter and repast. 

And how we made the postern fast, 

Because they were so rough a crew, 

Yet gave them food and rest enew 

In the great barn outside the gate ; 

And how they feasted long and late 

Till, drunk, they stormed the postern door, 

And sacked the buttery for more. 

Nor this the end ; for, having done. 

One shouted " Nassau ; " straightway one 

*' Hapsburg." The battle was begun. 

She looked at me afraid and faint, 
With eyes that mutely begged for aid ; 
For I was safe and I a saint, 
She thought, who was a frightened maid ; 



154 T^^^ New Arcadia. 

And through the clamor and the din 

I heard her say, " They can but sin, 

Having not God within their heart ; 

But we, who have the better part, 

Must pray for them to Christ above, 

Tliat in the greatness of His love 

He pardon them their sins to-day." 

And then she turned her eyes away. 

But I looked straight before me where 

The unseemly blows and clamors were, 

And cold my heart grew, stiff and cold, 

For I had prayed so much of old, 

So vainly for these knights-at-arms, 

Who filled the country with alarms — 

Too often had I prayed in vain, 

Too often put myself in pain 

For these irreverent, brawling, rough. 

And godless knights — I had prayed enough ! 

" Let God," I cried, " do all He please ; 
I pray no more for such as these." 



yatzi Schultheiss, 155 

Then swift I turned and fled, as though 
I fled from sin, and strife, and woe. 
Who fled from God, and from His grace. 
Nor stayed I till I reached the place 
Where I had prayed an hour ago. 

I stood again beneath the shade 

The flowering apple-orchard made ; 

The grass was still as tall and green. 

And fresh as ever it had been. 

I heard the litde rabbits rush 

As swiftly through the wood ; the thrush 

Was singing still the self-same song, 

Yet something there was changed and wrong. 

Or through the grass or through my heart 

Some deadly thing had passed athwart. 

And left behind a blighting track ; 

For the old peace comes never back. 

God knows how I am humbled, how 
There is in all the convent now 



156 The New Arcadia, 

No novice half so weak and poor 
In all esteem as I ; the door 
I keep, and wait on passers-by, 
And lead the cattle out to browse, 
And wash the beggars' feet ; even I, 
Who was the glory of our house. 

Yet dares my soul rejoice because, 

Though I have failed, though I have sinned, 

Not less eternal are the laws 

Of God, no less the sun and wind 

Declare His glory than before, 

Though I am fallen, and faint, and poor. 

Nay, should I fall to very Hell, 

Yet am I not so miserable 

As heathen are, who know not Him, 

Who makes all other glories dim. 

O God, believed in still though lost. 

Yet fill me with Thy Holy Ghost — 

Let but the vision fill mine eye 



Jiitzi Schultheiss. 157 

An instant ere the tear be dry ; 

Or, if Thou wilt, keep hid and far, 

Yet art Thou still the secret star 

To which my soul sets all her tides, 

My soul that recks of nought besides. 

Have not I found Thee in the fire 

Of sunset's purple after-glow ? 

Have not I found Thee in the throe 

Of anguished hearts that bleed and tire ? 

God, once so plain to see and hear, 

Now never answering any tear. 

O God, a guest within my house 

Thou wert, my love thou wert, my spouse ; 

Yet never known so well as now 

When the ash whitens on my brow ; 

And cinders on my head are tossed, 

Because the gift I had I lost. 



VI. 
LAUS DEO: A.D. 121 3 



Laus Deo: A.D. 12 13, 161 



LADS DEO: A.D. 1213, 

God is the common soul of all. 

The Christ Himself Who saveth me, 

Nearer to God I dare not call 

Than is the ruining wind at sea 

Or the lost corpse whom no one weeps. 

Not this nor that is God ; but He 

All things pervades, in all things sleeps, 

And by His nature, not His will, 

The round world from destruction keeps. 

Not this nor that is God ; and still 

I know, I know He may be found 

More closely than in cloud or rill : 

For, lost within my soul's profound 

And inner depth, a being moves 

That is not me, that is not bound 



1 62 The New Arcadia. 

By earthly limits, earthly loves, 
That is not stirred by what I feel, 
And which condemns not, nor approves. 
Beside that inner depth I reel, 
Looking therein, therefrom I shrink ; 
So far the empty dark doth wheel, 
So far, so wide below the brink. 
And yet I know the chasm is His ; 
Nor till I fall and dare not think. 
But simply through the dark abyss 
Keep falling down, and still to fall. 
Shall I behold God as He is. 

O vast abysm of God, O lone 

And awful chaos unexplored, 

Where buds the latest flower unknown. 

Where all our undreamed deeds are stored 

Unborn and still, O mighty womb, 

In which the unconscious, voiceless Word 

Dwells without life alive ! O tomb. 



Laus Deo: A.D. 1213. 163 



Which buries all the past no less 

Tlian us in Thine eternal room ! 

O God, too far, too strange to bless 

Me that would drag myself to Thee, 

Take from my soul its separateness, 

And let myself no more be me ! 

Take from me memory, thought and soul. 

Drowned and confounded let me be, 

In Thy surrounding night to roll, 

An atom past my own control. 

In the unconscious sum of Thee. 



VII. 

APPREHENSION. 



Apprehension, 167 



APPREHENSION. 



The hills come down on every side, 

The marsh lies green below, 
The green, green valley is long and wide, 
Where the grass grows thick with the rush beside. 

And the white sheep come and go. 

Down in the marsh it is green and still ; 

You may linger all the day. 
Till a shadow slants from the western hill. 
And the color goes out of the flowers in the rill, 

And the sheep look ghostly gray. 



1 68 The New Arcadia. 

And never a change in the great green flat 

Till the change of night, my friend. 
Oh wide green valley where we two sat, 
How I longed that our lives were as peaceful as that, 

And seen from end to end ! 



II. 

foolish dream, to hope that such as I 
Who only answer to thine easiest moods. 
Should fill thy heart, as o'er my heart there broods 

The perfect fulness of thy memory ! 

1 flit across thy soul as white birds fly 

Across the untrodden desert solitudes : 
A moment's flash of wings ; fair interludes 
That leave unchanged the eternal sand and sky. 

Even such to thee am I ; but thou to me 
As the embracing shore to the sobbing sea, 
Even as the sea itself to the stone-tossed rill. 



Apprehension, 169 



But who, but who shall give such rest to thee ? 
The deep mid-ocean waters perpetually 
Call to the land, and call unanswered still. 



III. 

As dreams the fasting nun of Paradise, 
And finds her gnawing hunger pass away 
In thinking of the happy bridal day 

That soon shall dawn upon her watching eyes, 

So, dreaming of your love, do I despise 

Harshness or death of friends, doubt, slow decay, 
Madness, — all dreads that fill me with dismay, 

And creep about me oft with fell surmise. 

For you are true ; and all I hoped you are ; 
O perfect answer to my calling heart ! 
And very sweet my life is, having thee. 

Yet must I dread the dim end shrouded far ; 

Yet must I dream : should once the good planks start. 
How bottomless yawns beneath the boiling sea ! 



VIII. 
LOVE AND VISION, 



Love and Vision. 173 



LOVE AND VISION. 

My love is more than life to me, 
And you look on and wonder 

In what can that enchantment be 
You think I labor under. 

Yet you, too, have you never gone 

Some wet and yellow even 
Where russet moors reach on and on 

Beneath a windy heaven ? — 

Brown moors which at the western edge 

A watery sunset brushes 
With misty rays yon sullen ledge 

Of cloud casts down on the rushes. 



174 ^/^^ Nezv Arcadia, 

You see no more ; but shade your eyes, 
Forget the showery weather, 

Forget the wet, tempestuous skies, 
And look upon the heather. 

Oh, fairyland, fairyland ! 

It sparkles, lives, and dances. 
By every gust swayed down and fanned. 

And every rain-drop glances. 

Never in jewel or wine the light 
Burned like the purple heather ; 

And some is the palest pink, some white, 
Swaying and dancing together. 

Every stem is sharp and clear. 

Every bell is ringing, 
No doubt, some tune we do not hear 

For the thrushes' sleepy singing. 



Love and Vision. 175 

Over all, like the bloom on a grape, 

The lilac seeding-grasses 
Have made a haze, vague, without shape, 

For the wind to change as it passes. 

Under all is the budding ling. 

Gray-green with scarlet notches, 
Bossed with many a mossy thing. 

And gold with lichen-blotches. 

Here and there slim rushes stand 

Aslant as carried lances. 
I saw it and called it fairyland ; 

You never saw it, the chance is ? 

Brown moors and stormy skies that kiss 

At eve in rainy weather 
You saw — but what the heather is 

Saw I, who love the heather. 



IX. 

THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. 



The Conquest of Fairyland, 179 



THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND. ^ 

There reigned a king in the land of Persia, mighty and 

great was he grown, 
On the necks of the kings of the conquered earth he 

builded up his throne. 

There sate a king on the throne of Persia ; and he was 

grown so proud 
That all the life of the world was less to him than a 

passing cloud. 

He reigned in glory : joy and sorrow lying between his 

hands. 
If he sighed a nation shook, his smile ripened the harvest 

of lands. 



i8o The New Arcadia, 

He was the saddest man beneath the everlasting sky, 
For all his glories had left him old, and the proudest 
king must die. 

He who was even as God to all the nations of men, 
Must die as the merest peasant dies, and turn into earth 
again. 

And his life with the fear of death was bitter and sick 

and accursed, 
As brackish water to drink of which is to be forever 

athirst. 

The hateful years rolled on and on, but once it chanced 

at noon 
The drowsy court was thrilled to gladness, it echoed so 

sweet a tune. 

Low as the lapping of the sea, as the song of the lark is 

clear. 
Wild as the moaning of pine branches ; the king was fain 

to hear. 



The Conquest of Fairyland. i8i 

"What is the song, and who is the singer?" he said; 

" before the throne 
Let him come, for the songs of the world are mine, and 

all but this are known." 

Seven mighty kings went out the minstrel man to find : 
And all they found was a dead cypress soughing in the 
wind. 

And slower still, and sadder still the heavy winters rolled, 
And the burning summers waned away, and the king 
grew very old ; 

Dull, worn, feeble, bent ; and once he thought, " To die 
Were rest, at least." And as he thought the music wan- 
dered by. 

Into the presence of the king, singing, the singer came, 
And his face was like the spring in flower, his eyes were 
clear as flame. 



1 82 The New Arcadia, 

"What is the song you play, and what the theme your 

praises sing? 
It is sweet ; I knew not I owned a thing so sweet," said 

the weary king. 

" 1 sing my country," said the singer, "■ a land that is 

sweeter than song." 
" Which of my kingdoms is your country ? Thither would 

I along." 

" Great, O king, is thy power, and the earth a footstool 

for thy feet ; 
But my country is free, and my own country, and oh, my 

country is sweet ! " 

The eyes of the king, as he heard, grew young and alive 

with fire : 
" Lo, is there left on the earth a thing to strive for, a 

thing to desire ? 



The Conquest of Fairyland. 183 

** Where is thy country? tell me, O singer ! speak thine 

innermost heart ! 
Leave thy music ! speak plainly ! Speak — forget thine 

art!" 

The eyes of the singer shone as he sang, and his voice 

rang wild and free 
As the elemental wind or the uncontrollable sobs of the 

sea. 

** O for my distant home ! " he sighed ; " Oh, alas ! away 

and afar 
I watch thee now as a lost sailor watches a shining 

star. 

" Oh, that a wind would take me there ! that a bird would 

set me down 
Where the golden streets shine red at sunset in my 

father's town ! 



184 The New Arcadia, 

" For only in dreams I see the faces of the women 

there, 
And fain would I hear them singing once, braiding their 

ropes of hair. 

*' Oh, I am thirsty, and long to drink of the river of Life, 

and I 
Am fain to find my own country, where no man shall 

die." 

Out of the light of the throne, the king looked down : as 

in the spring 
The green leaves burst from their dusky buds, so was 

hope in the eyes of the king. 

" Lo," he said, " I will make thee great ; I will make thee 

mighty in sway 
Even as I ; but the name of thy country speak, and the 

place and the way." 



The Conquest of Fairyland, 185 

" Oh, the way to my country is ever north till you pass 

the mouth of hell, 
Past the limbo of dreams and the desolate land where 

shadows dwell. 

'' And when you have reached the fount of wonder, you 

ford the waters wan 
To the land of elves and the land of fairies, enchanted 

Masinderan." 

The singer ceased ; and the l}Te in his hand snapped, as 

a cord, in twain ; 
And neither lyre nor singer was seen in the kingdom of 

Persia again. 

And all the nobles gazed astounded; no man spoke a 

word 
Till the old king said : " Call out my armies ; bring me 

hither a sword ! " 



1 86 The New Arcadia, 

As a little torrent swollen by snows is turned to a terrible 

stream. 
So the gathering voices of all his countries cried to the 

king in his dream. 

Crying, " For thee, O our king, for thee, we had freely 

and willingly died. 
Warriors, martyrs, what thou wilt; not that our lives 

betide 

*'The worth of a thought to the king, but rather, O ruler, 

because thy rod 
Is over our heads as over thine is the changeless will of 

God. 

'•' Rather for this we beseech thee, O master, for thine own 

sake refrain 
From the blasphemous madness of pride, from the fever 

of impious gain." 



The Conquest of Fairyland. 187 



"You seek my death/' the king thundered; "you cry, 

' Forbear to save 
The hfe of a king too old to frolic ; let him drowse in the 

grave.' 

" But I will live for all your treason ; and, by my own 
right hand ! 

I will set out this day with you to conquer Fairy- 
land." 

Then all the nations paled aghast, for the battle to 

begin 
Was a war with God, and a war with death, and they 

knew the thing was sin. 

Sick at heart they gathered together, but none denounced 

the wrong. 
For the will of God was unseen, unsaid, and the will of 

the king was strong. 



1 88 The New Arcadia. 



So the air grew bright with spears, and the earth shook 

under the tread 
Of the mighty horses harnessed for battle ; the standards 

flaunted red. 

And the wind was loud with the blare of trumpets, and 

every house was void 
Of the strength and stay of the house, and the peace of 

the land destroyed. 

And the growing com was trodden under the weight of 

armed feet, 
And every woman in Persia cursed the sound of a song 

too sweet, 

Cursed the insensate longing for life in the heart of a sick 

old man ; 
But the king of Persia with all his armies marched on 

Masinderan. 



The Conquest of Fairyland. 1 89 



Many a day they marched in the sun till their silver 

armor was lead 
To sink their bodies into the grave, and many a man fell 

dead. 

And they passed the mouth of hell, and the shadowy 

country gray, 
Where the air is mist and the people mist and the rain 

more real than they. 

And they came to the fount of wonder, and forded the 

waters wan. 
And the king of Persia and all his armies marched on 

Masinderan. 

And they turned the rivers to blood, and the fields to a 

ravaged camp, 
Till they neared the golden faery town, that burned in the 

dusk as a lamp. 



IQO The New Arcadia, 

And they stood and shouted for joy, to see it stand so 

nigh, 
Given into their hands for spoil; and their hearts beat 

proud and high. 

And the armies longed for the morrow, to conquer the 

shining town, 
For there was no death in the land, neither any to strike 

them down. 

And the hosts were many in numbers, mighty, and skilled 

in the strife, 
And they lusted for gold and conquest as the old king 

lusted for life. 

And, gazing on the golden place, night took them 

unaware, 
And black and windy grew the skies, and black the 

eddying air — 



The Conquest of Fairyland. 191 

So long the night and black the night that fell upon their 

eyes, 
They quaked with fear, those mighty hosts ; the sun 

would never rise. 

Darkness and deafening sounds confused the black, tem- 
pestuous air, 

And no man saw his neighbor's face, nor heard his neigh- 
bor's prayer. 

And wild with terror the mad battalions fell on each other 

in fight. 
The ground was strewn with wounded men, mad in the 

horrible night — 

Mad with eternal pain, with darkness and stabbing 

blows 
Rained on all sides from invisible hands till the ground 

was red as a rose. 



192 The New Arcadia. 

And, though he were longing for rest, none ventured to 

pause from the strife, 
Lest haply another wound be his to poison his hateful 

life. 

And the king entreated death ; and for peace the armies 

prayed ; 
But the gifts of God are everlasting, His word is not 

gainsaid. 

Gold and batde are given the hosts, their boon is turned 

to a ban, 
And the curse of the king is to live forever in conquered 

Masinderan. 



SONG. 

I HAVE lost my singing- voice ; 

My heyday 's over. 
No more I lilt my cares 'and joys, 

But keep them under cover. 

My heyday 's gone : 

I sit and look on 
While Life rushes past with a sob and a moan. 

Wherefore should I stop to tell 

The pang that rends me ? 
If it leave me all is well ; 

And if it last it ends me. 

Should one tear rise 

To my entranced eyes 
It falls for a world full of hunger and sighs. 

13 



Messrs. Roberts Brother^ Publications. 
FAMOUS WOMEN SEEIES. 



EMILY BRONTE. 

By a. MARY F. ROBINSON. 
One vol. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

" Miss Robinson has written a fascinating biography. . . . Emily Bronte is 
Interesting, not because she wrote ' Wuthering Heights,' but because of her 
brave, baffled, human life, so lonely, so full of pain, but with a great hope shining 
beyond all the darkness, and a passionate defiance in bearing more than the 
burdens that were laid upon her. The story of the three sisters is infinitely sad, 
but it is the ennobling sadness that belongs to large natures cramped and striving 
for freedom to heroic, almost desperate, work, with little or no result. The author 
of this intensely interesting, sympathetic, and eloquent biography, is a young lady 
and a poet, to whom a place is given in a recent anthology of living English poets, 
which is supposed to contain only the best poems of the best writers." — Boston 
Daily A dvertiser. 

"Miss Robinson had many excellent qualifications for the task she has per- 
formed in this little volume, among which may be named, an enthusiastic interest 
in her subject and a real sympathy with Emily Bronte's sad and heroic life. 'To 
represent her as she was,' says Miss Robinson, ' would be her noblest and most 
fitting monument.' . . . Emily Bronte here becomes well known to us and, in one 
sense, this should be praise enough for any biography.'' — New York Times. 

"The biographer who finds such material before him as the lives and characters 
of the Bronte family need have no anxiety as to the interest of his work. Char- 
acters not only strong but so uniquely strong, genius so supreme, misfortunes so 
overwhelming, set in its scenery so forlornly picturesque, could not fail to attract 
all_ readers, if told even in the most prosaic language. When we add to this, that 
Miss Robinson has told their_ story not_ in prosaic language, but with a literary 
style exhibiting all the qualities essential to good biography, our readers will 
understand that this life of Emily Bronte is not only as interesting as a novel, but 
a great deal more interesting than most novels. As it presents most vividly a 
general picture of the family, there seems hardly a reason for giving it Emily's name 
alone, except perhaps for the masterly chapters on ' Wuthering Heights,' which 
the reader will find a grateful condensa tion of the best in that powerful but some- 
what forbidding story. We know of no point in the Bronte history — their genius, 
their surroundings, their faults, their happiness, their misery, their love and friend- 
ships, their peculiarities, their power, their gentleness, their patience, their pride, 
— which Miss Robinson has not touched upon with conscientiousness and sym- 
pathy." — The Critic. 

" ' Emily Bronte ' is the second of the ' Famous Women Series,' which Roberts 
Brothers, Boston, propose to publish, and of which ' George Eliot ' was the initial 
volume. Not the least remarkable of a very remarkable family, the personage 
whose life is here written, possesses a peculiar interest to all who are at all familiar 
with the sad and singular history of herself and her sister Charlotte. That the 
author. Miss A. Marv F. Robinson, has done her work with minute fidelity to 
facts as well as affectionate devotion to the subject of her sketch, is plainly to be 
seen all through the book." — Washington Post. 



Sold by all Booksellers, or mailed, post-paid, on receipt of 
price, by the Publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 



